


male robbery

by nightcap



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Bathroom Sex, Boarding School, Gen, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Psychological Trauma, mentions of vomit, murder squad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-25 10:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2618906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcap/pseuds/nightcap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the whole thing about love is kind of stupid, and in which there is the creation of a gloriously sad, dick-too-bomb creature named Connor Walsh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. dick joke #20

i.

It might be after the nineteenth dick joke. It’s probably after the nineteenth dick joke, and Michaela has just got that whole Too Good For Company thing going on, and Asher’s tracing circles in the air with his finger and staring at them intently, and there is kind of a loud sound, a dropping sound, and Connor looks up.

“Connor,” says Michaela, when the crash has his attention. Her voice is full of the barely-contained singsong rage she has so perfected. “Why don’t you go somewhere _else_? Why are you always _here_?”

“I guess I just looove hanging out with you, Michaela,” says Connor, grinning, left side of his mouth higher than the right. Michaela huffs and bends down to pick up her textbook from the ground. She resumes pointedly tapping her pen on her clipboard, ferocious.

“Some people,” she says, again, words poisonously italicized, “have friends. Some people don’t always hang out around people that _hate_ them. Do you _not_ have friends.”

And – well, here it comes, there’s a kind of sick feeling of satisfaction in her gut – she watches as the corners of Connor’s mouth droop, a bit, for a second. It’s not like she didn’t already know, after all. She confirmed it last week when she took Connor’s unlocked phone and went through the contacts – 47 unread messages, and so many unknown numbers, and eight total names – two of which were “Mom” and “Dad”, respectively.

It’s terribly pathetic. But look, there it is: the smirk on full blast. Connor waves his phone through the air, kind of fast, so that Michaela only catches different blocks of blue and green, lit up on the screen.

“I have,” he says, annoyingly, “ _seventeen_ notifications on Humpr, and they’re _very_ interested,” but Michaela doesn’t particularly care, is all. After a second, Connor puts his phone down on his lap to make room for a wildly exaggerated yawn/stretch. The dick jokes resume.

 

ii.

Aiden is always tight, wound up, incredibly stressed under all his put-togetherness, so the moments where he is uncoiled, loose, doing homework on a knee, not wearing any clothes – Connor really closes his eyes and lets it settle in the room around him, lets the warm feeling pool at the bottom of his stomach. The room is lit, it feels nice, and safe, and he thinks it’s everything he ever wanted, and the ceiling fan is spinning in smooth lazy circles above them and his book is getting good and he’s sprawled on the better bed, the one that’s firm but gives, a little, and he doesn’t know if he could explain it, really, other than, like, _love_ or whatever.

“Aiden,” he says quietly, after he finishes a chapter.

“Walsh,” replies Aiden, looking up from his binder and raising his eyebrows.

“I like this,” says Connor, swallowing, “I really like this. I want to keep doing this. With you.”

“What do you mean,” laughs Aiden, moving his binder from one knee to the other.

“You make me… happy,” says Connor, seriously, closing his book. “You make me… happy. I want –”

There is a silence. Then:

“I know,” says Aiden, softly, and it’s not until later, when Connor’s back in his own dorm room, that he remembers the look on Aiden’s face and wonders if he maybe did something wrong –

 

iii.

“Hey, look,” says Connor, giving the boy a sympathetic smile. “When I was your age, I… I fell, in love, too. It was terrible. Wouldn’t recommend it to anyone.”

“Really,” says the boy, flicking his eyes up and down Connor’s body. “And how old are you, exactly.”

“Sixty,” says Connor, shrugging.

“Right, okay,” says the boy, finally making eye contact. “Anyway. What happened?”

“He,” says Connor, swallowing and looking down, at his hands, which he’s spread in front of himself, “he told me I was just a phase. It’s like – I don’t know. He was in so deep, man – I think… I think he was afraid to let himself really… _go_.”

“Huh,” says the boy.

“Yeah,” says Connor, then, bluntly, “so he left me. He broke my heart.”

“Rough,” says the boy, then, shyly: “Want to go kiss in the bathroom?”

Connor looks up at him again, licks his lips. “I thought you’d never ask.”

 

iv.

– It’s not a week later when it happens, when everything kind of ends, in a terrible, fast way. It starts with his name, far away, then close up, way too fast.

“Connor!” Aiden yells, catching up to him, with basically zero huffing and a slow-jog pace that looks _so_ easy (not fair. Like he even _works out_ ).

“Aiden,” Connor greets, back, slowing down and gritting his teeth and repeating a mantra in his head (don’t give in don’t give in don’t give don’t give in) so he doesn’t do what he wants to do, which is turn back and wait and maybe grab Aiden and sit him down on a bench, and talk about his _feelings_ , or whatever, and make out, with a lot of tongue action and a lot of hands under coats and, like, dick-pawing, probably, which is, yeah, vulgar, but it’s not his faultthat –

“You been running, a lot?” asks Aiden, face softening. “You’ve gotten faster.”

“It feels good when you stop,” says Connor.

“It does,” says Aiden, cryptically, then smiling, also cryptically. The smile is dropped, after a second, and Aiden kind of shifts from foot to foot and opens his mouth to speak.

“Look,” he says, “have you been avoiding me?”

Connor slows down and stops and turns around.

“Holy shit, Aiden,” he says. “I found you making out with _Catherine._ In my _dorm_.”

“Yeah, well, Eric was sleeping,” says Aiden. “I couldn’t just take her back and – Whatever. It’s not like it meant anything.”

“You couldn’t just take her back,” repeats Connor, “And. Whatever. It’s not like it _meant_ anything. Look –”

There are a lot of questions he wants to ask, but his tongue freezes, in his mouth. He has the fleeting thought that maybe if he studied harder he would know what this means.

“The… thing,” says Aiden, “with Catherine. I don’t even – like her. Not like that.”

“Well,” says Connor, loudly, “do you like girls?”

“I,” says Aiden, swallowing hard. “I.”

“You,” says Connor. They both stand there for a moment. Then:

“You like boys,” reminds Connor, tilting his head to the side.

“I do,” says Aiden.

“And it definitely felt like you were gay when I was eating you out,” points out Connor, with a slight lift of his eyebrows.

It’s the wrong thing to say. There’s a wall, coming up, before his eyes, and before he knows, before he takes the time to think –  

“What we did,” says Aiden, “was for fun, and I hope you didn’t take it to heart. I like you. I do. But this isn’t the right _time_ , and I didn’t…” there’s a pause, “…I didn’t mean for things to get this far.”

“You didn’t mean for things to get this far,” repeats Connor, again, because, evidently, breakups reduce him to slightly less than the capacity of a voice recorder.

“Hey. So. I should let you get to your running,” says Aiden, suddenly, and then they just stand there, Connor blinking very fast because he thinks he might do something stupid if he is allowed to look at Aiden for long periods of time, but finally he turns back around and does (get to his running, that is), and they don’t meet again, ever, probably, until five years down the road, when Connor’s coming out of the door after a night of bleary-eyed research and non-stop water-chugging and falling asleep, over and over again, and he sees him, arms around Michaela fucking Pratt, and _we went to boarding school together. We went to boarding school together, we went to boarding school together,_

 

v.

“Here,” says Connor, making sure to drag the word out just – so – “if you move your thigh – oh, nice, that’s a good spot you’ve picked, there –” And the boy (Daniel? Donald? Denmark? Daniel) smiles, for real – it’s a genuine smile, not a smirk, or a grin, or anything, like, well, the Connor Walsh trademark –

“You’re good,” says Daniel, quietly, “you’re really good at this. Am I – is this okay?”

“Yes,” purrs Connor, “it definitely _is –_ now, turn around. Let me do you.”

There’s a hesitation, from the other man, this sort of flat light going on in his eyes, and there’s a second where they both know he’s going to pull away and then he stops and moves closer, instead, and something about it feels wrong. Daniel opens his mouth to speak.

“I’ve never,” he says, slowly, like he’s admitting something, “done this, before.”

“What,” laughs Connor, even after he knows it’s the wrong thing to do, even with the warning in his stomach that he’s about to start rambling, “bottomed? What are you – a full time top? Big topper? Big top, rolling into town… It’s a new _experience_. Come on.”

“This,” says Daniel, lips wet. It’s beautiful, it’s distracting. Connor has never wanted anything more. “I’ve never done _this_ before.”

“It’s your first time,” says Connor.

“It’s my first time,” a voice echoes, he’s not sure who, but it’s someone somewhere far, far away, not here, this isn’t – where –

Something twinges in Connor’s chest, and then he pulls out the arms around him abruptly, and slams back-first into the cold bathroom wall, turning his head and pressing his cheek against it – God, that feels good – and that’s it, it’s over, and his dick is going soft and so is the rest of him and he sinks to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, looking up at Daniel, through his eyelashes. His pants are still on the ground, both their pants are still on the ground, and it’s ridiculous, the whole thing is _ridiculous_ , and also terrible, probably. Definitely.

“I’m sorry,” he says. There’s a brush of cool air, on his side, and a quick burst of chatter from the hallway outside. He closes his eyes. Somewhere from his left, he hears the sound of footsteps and then the faucet. “Oh my God, Connor,” says Wes in his mild tone, bathroom door closing behind him. “What you’re… doing. Which – how many times have you _done_ that here?”

“This is Daniel,” says Connor, the same time Daniel says, in a hurt, surprised sort of voice, “My name is Dylan.”

“It’s his _first time_ ,” says Connor, something in his voice breaking, and then he’s laughing, hard – oh my God, he’s laughing, and he just wants to stay there on the floor of the men’s restroom, forever, because he doesn’t think he could ever move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title previously "the monsters turned out to be just trees".
> 
> title now from "female robbery" by the neighborhood.
> 
> so angst ! so very faux-hipster !


	2. same time next week?

vi.

Every time the car stops at a red light or Laurel makes that soft distraught noise or Michaela starts breathing again, in a fast huffy way, Connor turns and looks in the rearview mirror and sees their faces, and it’s – it’s – he’s.

“Wes,” he offers, swallowing something sour at the back of his throat, “why don’t you call your girlfriend? WE WON!”

Nobody says anything. In the front seat, Wes closes his eyes and opens them again, slowly.

(If moral grayness had features, thinks Connor, they would be arranged in the exact non-threatening confused golden retriever face Wes always has on. It is absolutely freaking _terrifying._ )

“Silent night, holy night,” he continues, clenching his fingers around the steering wheel. “Am I right, friends? All is calm, all is bright – I’m going to turn on some music. If somebody doesn’t say something my ears are going to _die_ from prolonged _exposure_ to Michaela’s _sobbing_.”

He turns on the radio. It’s very loud. He also rolls down the window, because he can’t breathe.

“Connor,” says Laurel, in warning.

“Shut up,” replies Connor.

There is a silence.

Then: “Connor,” says Wes. “If you could listen, for a second.”

“I am not,” says Connor, “going to _listen_ , for a second. This is all _your_ –” he laugh-sobs, rests his forehead on the steering wheel: “You… freaking… did this.”

“Listen,” says Wes. “We _are all a part of this_.”

“No,” says Connor. “You,” he turns and points at Wes, “ _you_ took the trophy and _smashed his brains out_ – _”_

“ _Connor_ ,” says Laurel, again, slightly louder. He shifts to put his head out the window, and then takes in huge mouthfuls of cold air. Michaela whimpers in the back seat. Connor starts retching. Nothing comes out.

“I am not,” he continues, when he catches his breath, “a part of this. You and your – goddamn – Rebecca, and I was just there to pick up the – the pieces – oh, my God, the _literal actual freaking pieces_ – oh, my God!”

The radio swells. Someone shouts something, outside. Wes turns towards his window and puts his chin in his hand.

Connor closes his eyes and hopes a car hits them.

 

vii.

Oliver Hampton

Age: 29

Profession: IT Specialist/Advertising

Other Websites:

tweeter.com/O_Hampster

linkingout.com/oliverhampton

 

About Me:

Hi, I’m Oliver Hampton! I like to read, watch movies, and “hack into mainframes”, which I get paid for. :)

_Here anytime you need to talk…_

 

viii.

Connor is scared out of his mind. It’s embarrassing. It feels like there are pinpricks, travelling up and down his arms, and it feels like the back half of his brain is shut off, and it feels like he’s devastatingly useless sitting here, shivering, in the kitchen of his ex’s apartment, where he ended up after half an hour of struggling to not either A, stop breathing, or B, spontaneously freaking _explode_ all over the hallway of a semi-public building.

Connor also has a huge boner, but that’s only, like, semi-important, in this situation. The slightly-more-important part of this situation is that he doesn’t let it show and that he finds some, like, anti-Viagra or whatever-the-fuck there is that exists for when you have a boner not an hour after you just _hacked up the pieces of your professor’s husband’s body_ , which, is he turned on by that? Or is he turned on by –

“It’s been,” says Oliver, in a slightly-panicked-but-trying-to-be-very-calm-and-soothing voice, “twenty minutes, and I don’t want to push, or anything, but you’re really scared and you’re scaring me, too, and I want to know – I want you to tell me, if something is wrong, or not right, and something obviously _isn’t_ right. Please let me help, Connor.”

“It isn’t – Oh, my God – I screwed up,” says Connor and he starts panting, and he can’t breathe, still. It goes on for a while. He can’t stop shaking. His sides hurt. He has a boner. It’s _hysterical_.

“Connor,” says Oliver, sitting down a few feet away from him, which is a marginally safe distance away from Connor’s crazy. It is one am and they are both sitting on the floor.

Oliver swallows and gives him a silent, pleading look. Connor looks away and throws up (water, which had been given to him a glass of some time ago) all over himself, and that’s… the third (?) time tonight. Or this morning. He touches his coat and then brings his fingers to his mouth, which is hard, because they’re shaking all over the place, and sucks on them, for a second. It’s salty. It’s the water he just threw up, or the sweat he’s soaked through with, or – blood –

“Oliver,” says Connor, and then there’s a space, there’s a huge silence with everything he would say if things weren’t so weird, and dark, and hideous, and finally he continues, “I – screwed – up, I screwed up so bad –”

“Connor,” says Oliver, again, softly. Connor just looks back at him, eyes wide.

“I fucked everything up, Oliver,” he chokes out, and then Oliver’s scooting closer, and patting him, tentatively, and that’s it, it’s – it’s – all he can think about – oh, my God, he can’t even do _terrible freaking situations correctly_ – all he does is pray to _god_ his boner isn’t noticeable.

“It’s okay,” whispers Oliver.

Connor is shaking. Oliver is silent, still beside him. They stay like that for a long time.

 

ix.

There are seven Secular Organizations for Sobriety within a twenty mile range of Connor’s place. He signs up for all of them.

 

x.

“Hi,” says Connor, avoiding eye contact. “I’m Connor Walsh and I have… a drug problem.”

“Hi, Connor,” says someone in the room. The group leader nods supportively at him.

“Nothing you say leaves here,” he says.

“I had… a friend,” says Connor, swallowing. “We were hanging out, and he was – we were mixing some pills, alcohol, and some stuff we – hadn’t tried before, and then something went wrong, and he landed on the ground, and there was – there wasn’t any _blood_ , or anything, but I didn’t call the police. I just. I just sat there.”

“That’s tough,” says the man sitting next to him. He pats Connor’s knee. “That’s tough, man.”

“Is he alright?”

“Yeah,” says Connor, “he’s fine. He just needs some time to – put himself back together –” someone lets out a loud startled laugh. Connor looks up and realizes it might be him.

“We’re all here and we’re all listening,” says the group leader. “Who would like to go next?”

 

xi.

Connor Walsh

Age: 24

Profession: Student (Law)

About Me:

Hot, eligible, eight inches, _killed a freaking man and laid down across from him in a pool of his blood and I still smell like it oh my god oh my god oh my god –_

xii.

There are compartments in Connor’s brain, and usually they’re very nice and square and nestled in next to each other, but since a specific Friday night, they’ve been wet and spilling, dripping and bleeding all over the place. It’s disgusting. Sometimes Connor will feel the back of his head to make sure it’s not leaking out.

In one of the compartments there is a boy, with spiky hair and a Bluetooth. He is sprawled on the concrete some number of floors beneath a building. There is a sick, tipping back motion and a crisp blue shirt and a black sheet over – over –

Connor very pointedly does not look at the window.

In another one of the compartments there is a stupid, stupid engagement ring and a makeup kiss that never happened and blurry, overlapped images of a girl and a boy, all skin on skin on skin. It’s imaginary. It’s freaking dumb, is what it is.

Then, finally, there is a big, black space, and it’s ugly and soaked with dark aqua and dark red and there is a bashed-in skull and a car, his car, and a house, and a man –  

The next time he sees the house he wants to throw up, and he does, he dry heaves next to the bushes until Laurel walks up from the side of the building (it turns out she doesn’t see him anyway, because she’s kissing Frank like she needs his sleazy dick pressed into her to live), and then Asher walks up and that’s just it, isn’t it. He’s falling apart and he’s going back to the place a person died, a person died a person died a person died

 

xiii.

A car does not hit them.

Connor is treated to the full, _glorious_ journey home, complete with Michaela sitting up weirdly straight in her seat and Wes’s we-just-killed-a-man calm.

“I am going to sleep like a baby tonight!” announces Connor, when he can’t take the silence. “This _mor_ ning, I mean. Whatever. I am going to sleep like the _unborn baby_ in Lila Stangard’s _uterus!_ ”

Laurel opens her mouth, presumably to say his name in a warning tone. She is stopped by Michaela, who somehow straightens up _even more_.

“That is _not_ ,” she snaps, “how pregnancy _works_.”

“Like you would know,” retorts Connor, looking in the rearview mirror to goddamn _smile_ at her. “All you have is a half-baked med school degree and a fian- _gay_.”

“Fiancée soon to be husband,” says Michaela, then, again, quieter: “ _hus_ band.”

“ _Well_ then,” says Connor, “better find that ring!”

Michaela makes another hitching noise in the back of her throat. Laurel sighs. Wes is silent.

Connor turns up the radio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIED SOME STUFF, TELL ME IF IT WORKS OUT. :)
> 
> went more chronological here, mostly : )

**Author's Note:**

> on tumblr as beaufortstuarts. come say hey !!


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